


The Fire at the Heart of the World

by CrownLullaby



Series: Comfort is only yours to give [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Cullen Has Issues, Cullen is a dork, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Furious Blushing, Gift Giving, Gifts, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Mutual Pining, Romance, Self-Doubt, Slow Burn, Solas is an Egg, Unresolved Romantic Tension, talking is hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2018-11-06 00:03:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11024379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrownLullaby/pseuds/CrownLullaby
Summary: When she moves, he can't help but watch. When she speaks with her lilting voice, that Dalish accent so prominently there, he can't help but listen. She is like the sun in his life, like a ray of hope that he desperately tries to cling to, a comfort that he thought he would never deserve. She was his fire at the heart of the world, and comfort was only hers to give.---This fic will explore the relationship between our Mage Lavellan and her troubled Commander, Cullen Rutherford.It will be a slow-burn, with lots of fluff, back-of-the-neck-rubbing, stuttering, exchanged glances, light touches and attempts at speaking Elvhen to an obviously amused Dalish Inquisitor. Her Commander is as complicated as he looks, and his Inquisitor is not as confident and unmarred as he thinks. If you like seeing two dorks slowly learn to communicate and trust each other, and some hurdles to overcome, this will hopefully be your thing!It builds on some separate things I wrote before this, so check out the series before you get into this one! I did not expect to really start a multi-chapter fic so this is why it's split up. I might merge them together later.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, we're finally getting started with the multi-chapter fic! As mentioned in the summary, this builds on the previous things I wrote in this series. You might miss some things if you start out here!
> 
> I would like to get on a weekly posting schedule, but we will see if I can keep that up. I hope you enjoy this first chapter!

They made her Inquisitor a couple of days after they arrived at Skyhold. He had fervently supported her as a candidate for a role, much to Leliana and Josephine’s amusement, but he truly believed the role would suit her.

And when he saw her as they presented her with the sword, back straight and face triumphant as she raised it high, he knew they had made the right decision. She shone brighter than the sun in that moment, and as she looked down at him after he had rallied the troops, he had seen her eyes soften. His heart skipped a beat as she smiled, a big, toothy grin taking his breath away.

Maker, he was still not used to it, but he loved seeing her smile.

 

_Loved?_

They danced around each other the next couple of days. Cullen studiously avoided being alone with her, leaving first whenever they had a War Table meeting and surrounding himself with reports and work, always more work. She eventually caught him when he was overseeing recruits in the courtyard, shuffling papers when he saw her approach to hide his shaking hands.

They shook harder when he remembered the look on her face when he had turned away after she had asked him to stay.

Her voice was calm and collected, though there was a deeper emotion hidden underneath all of it. Sometimes she looked at him with eyes that saw too much, noticing the tremor, the sweat on his brow, the dark circles underneath his eyes. Her lips pursed, ears twitching, but she didn’t speak of it.

Only when she spoke of how close Haven had been, that she had been relieved that _he_ had made it out…

She seemed to want to turn away, but he stopped her, his hand gently on her elbow. “As am I,” he said, and for a moment she seemed to soften and almost melt under his touch. How long had it been since they had spoken – _really_ spoken?

“You stayed behind. You could have… I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again. You have my word.”  
“I know,” she whispered. “I just wished…” Her voice faltered as she looked away, almost annoyed. “I just wished you had stayed. Then. I was worried about you. _Elgar’nan,_ that was… too forward,” she said, suddenly flustered. Her green eyes focused on his, and only when she started frowning did he realize that he hadn’t said anything yet. He tried to speak, but stuttered something unintelligible instead, feeling the warmth spread over his cheeks. Siiri sighed, putting her hand on his. “You’re still shaking,” she murmured, keeping her eyes locked on his. Cullen cleared his throat, using his free hand to rub at the back of his neck. He remembered giving her a vague excuse, and she had looked at him with an almost withering look in her eyes, as if she knew he was lying.

 

He felt bad for not speaking the truth, but telling her that he was a _recovering addict_ seemed impossible. She thought well of him, and losing that… The possibility of losing that hurt more than the lie.

 

And so he lied.

 

They met daily, in the War Room or when she came by to look over his reports. She was always courteous, friendly, but more reserved than before, as if she was keeping distance on purpose. As if she knew that he wasn’t trusting her with everything.

He did nothing to make her change that.

A week later, she found him hunched over his desk, forehead to the wood as he prayed to the Maker to take away the throbbing pains in his head. She had gently removed his fingers from his hair, making soothing noises as she held his trembling hands in hers. They were so small, but seemed to envelop his completely, solid and strong. From her lips spilled soft words, mostly Elvhen, but his head hurt too much to ask her to translate. His stomach roiled, and for a second he thought that he would throw up, but Siiri hushed him and put a cold hand on the back of his neck, rubbing gently. He realized that she was using magic to cool him down, and suddenly his body reacted involuntarily.

He spilled his lunch unto the floor, vomiting with his head tucked in between his knees in shame.

After that he seemed to have blacked out for a while, and when he woke, he stared up through the broken ceiling at the starry sky. There was no one with him, but the blanket that covered him was not his. It smelled vaguely of elderflowers, and Cullen’s eyes fluttered shut again as he remembered her soft words and gentle touches.

_Maker’s breath. He did not want her to see him like this, but she had. Was she repulsed? Would she suspect what was ailing him?_

In the morning, he woke to the smell of a steaming pot of elfroot tea. It made him think of her, but when he opened his eyes, his room was empty. There was a note next to the pot of tea, and he read it as he poured himself a cup.

 

_Informed Leliana and Josephine that you are ill, you should stay in bed for the rest of the day. I hope the tea helps._

_~~If there’s anything~~ _

_~~Are you alrig~~ _

_~~I’m wo~~ _

_I will come by again later with more herbs._

He would know her slanted, elegant hand anywhere, even if she did not sign with her name. Sometimes she sent him letters accompanying the reports she sent to the Council, and he kept them in a drawer of his desk, only taking them out every now and then. His fingers stroked over the crossed out words as he sighed, closing his eyes before taking a sip of the tea. It tasted nicer than the usual fare, with a dash of honey, just as he liked it. He wondered if she knew that.

 

She did come by later, finding him engrossed in a book about Elvhen history that he had quickly tried to hide, to no avail. Siiri had only looked at him with that little tilt to her head before sitting on the edge of his bed while speaking to him. She asked how he felt, if the tea had helped, if there was anything she could do. Not once did she ask him what was ailing him, why he was ill, what other symptoms he had. Cullen felt guilty for not telling her, but relieved that she seemed to understand that he was not yet comfortable talking about it, and that she left those things unspoken.

_She would not think kindly of you if she knew._ He tried to shake it off, but that voice got louder and louder, dripping with venom whenever he felt the need for Lyrium the most. _An addict, your thoughts addled, tremors and illness. Yesterday you could not even keep your food inside of you when she used a bit of magic. What kind of Commander could you be for her, Knight-Captain?  
_ He closed his eyes, his brows knotting together painfully, and she seemed to think that he wanted her to leave. Siiri rose smoothly, looking at him with worry before she schooled her expression back to that neutral she was so fond of, and before he knew it he stretched out his hand and gently touched her fingers before she could slip away.

 

“Stay,” he said, echoing what she had asked of him all those weeks ago. “Please.”

 

He would understand if she said no. Even if it was to spite him, he deserved it – he had treated her badly, kept her at a distance, not trusting her as much as she deserved. His hand twitched, squeezing her small fingers as the thought of her turning his back on him _hurt_.

_Had she felt this way when he had turned away, ignoring her? Keeping her distant all this time?_

And for a moment, she looked as if she would deny him, but then something in his eyes made her face soften. “Of course,” she whispered, not a single trace of doubt in her voice, and he wondered if that moment where he thought she would walk away was real, or just something his mind had conjured up. She shifted for a moment, seemingly unsure before she looked at him with badly concealed eagerness.

“Maybe now would be a good time to start with those Elven lessons?”

Her entire face lit up when he nodded, and it made him laugh audibly when she scrambled to sit down on his bed cross-legged, his hand firmly wrapped in hers.

She did not leave for hours, and when she did, she left him a fresh pot of elfroot tea, personally putting the dollop of honey in his cup before pouring the hot liquid inside.  
The way she looked at him from underneath her eyelashes betrayed that she knew all about his sweet tooth, and the smile that she tried to hide when he drank the tea and declared it perfect kept him warm for the rest of the day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siiri is feeling a bit homesick, and Cullen finds a way to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had such a hard time getting this chapter done and out for some reason, and I might still edit it later.

He loved seeing her carve sculptures, creating the most elegant things from a simple block of wood.

She told him that she loved every part of the process, including finding a good kind of wood for the project. He watched her as she debated between two big pieces of wood, a cute little frown embedded between her eyebrows and pinching her _vallaslin_ together as she listed the advantages and disadvantages of both pieces. She was so serious about it, as she was with everything in life, and he liked seeing her so absorbed in a single thing.

Eventually, she picked two blocks of the lighter wood, and sat in the courtyard for hours, carving away at it. Whenever he ‘patrolled’ the battlements he took a small break, glancing over to where she was working. Some of the refugee children had made her a flower crown, proclaiming her to be an Elven princess as well as Inquisitor, and sat around her as she brought the bit of wood in her hands to life. From her delicate fingers and small knives sprouted a small, carved bird, and she perched it on the head of one of the younger girls, a tiny smile on her lips. She always called the children _da’len_ , even if they were human. She had told him once that children were precious in the Dalish community, something to be treasured and nurtured, and he saw that in everything she did with them. The girls giggled, cradling the bird in their hands and thanking her profusely before they ran away. Cullen saw something in Siiri’s face change when they ran away, a certain melancholy or homesickness that hit him in the chest with sorrow for her.

She was so very far from home.

Her Keeper had contacted the Inquisition a while ago, hearing of her former protégé being among them now, and Siiri had started corresponding with her ever since. He often found her in the garden when he walked past to go to the small Chantry, fingers deep in the dirt, tending to the seedlings they had received as an offering from her Clan. She was the First of clan Lavellan, she told him the day he took a break to sit beside her in the sun as she was working in the garden. It was her duty to learn and uphold the Dalish traditions, to tell the stories of her people so that the history of her clan and race would be preserved, and to eventually become the Keeper of her clan when the other one stepped down.

He wondered if she would return to her clan when everything was over, and leave the Inquisition.

And leave him.

He felt his cheeks burn when he tried to dismiss that thought. He did not own her, and had no claim on her – so why should he wonder if she would miss him if she left? If she would consider… staying?  
She must have noticed something changing in his behaviour, and for a moment they sat in silence, both blushing slightly. After some time, she haltingly started speaking again. “Things would probably be different now,” she murmured, patting the dirt around the Crystal Grace she was tending to. “With the Inquisition and such, I mean.”  
“Would you want to go back?”  
She looked up at the fragile tone of his voice, and he could see how torn she was from the expression on her face.  
“I don’t know,” she admitted with a sigh. “I’ve always liked being First. Learning the history of my clan, the traditions. But when you’ve ventured outside, you realize there are things you can’t… do when you’re Dalish.” Her ears twitched as she looked at him and her blush deepened. “Things you can’t have.” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, clearing his throat noisily. She looked at him as if she was implying something, but he did not quite grasp it, and after a while she made a nervous little noise and switched the subject.

The day after, he found a little halla on his desk.  
It was meticulously crafted from the piece of wood he had seen her choose a week ago, and he couldn’t hold back a smile as he picked the statuette up to take a better look at it. He had never seen a halla in real life, but it looked like it could start breathing and moving any moment. She had somehow gotten the detail of the fur in there, the softness of the eyes, and the elegant poise which he had always imagined the animals to have from her descriptions. It was beautiful, and he would have to find a way to thank her.

He only saw her the next day, and when she saw the statue standing prominently on his desk, she smiled brightly before moving on to the reports she was bringing him.

After a couple of days, she left for the Dales.  
Slowly, reports started pouring in, and with them letters addressed to Cullen. Leliana and Josephine seemed endlessly amused when he tucked the correspondence in his pockets, face red down to his neck with embarrassment. In her letters, she spoke of the desolated area, still bearing the marks of the Exalted March that had driven her people from their lands and fresh scars from the War of the Lions. There was an Elven clan camped in Dirthavaren, she said, and when she wrote of them it was obvious how much she had missed their way of life.

_It’s strange – when I left the Clan, I was so curious to see what was out there in the world. And now that I am gone, I keep wishing for the comforts of home._  
  


The comforts of home?

He hummed, and with a frown started walking to the War Room.

 

***

 

The Inquisitor arrived back at Skyhold two weeks later and looked utterly exhausted when she slid off her horse. Cullen smiled slightly when he saw her look up at her advisors, her eyes lingering just a tad longer on him. He let Leliana and Josephine go to her first, bringing her up to date with the politics that she had missed while she was gone, and bided his time. When the ladies had dispersed, he walked up to her and gestured towards the stables. “There’s something I would like to show you, if you have the time,” he said slowly, as if gauging her reaction. Siiri blinked, tilting her head in that way he found so adorable, but then humoured him and started walking.  
“The longer you keep me, the longer that hot bath that Josephine had the servants draw for me will have to wait,” she murmured, softly chiding him. “I have weeks of dirt to wash off. Seeing the _Dirth_ was amazing, but also very dusty at times.” Cullen chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck and decidedly _not_ thinking about her in the bathtub. At all.  
“Yes, well… I think you won’t mind the time lost,” he said when the stables came in sight.

He heard her gasp, and a smile quirked up one side of his mouth.

Master Dennet was holding the Red Hart by its bridle, caressing the mount’s nose and smiling his big, toothy grin at Siiri when he saw her. “A true beauty, this one is,” he said contently. “I never thought I’d see a Hart, let alone have one in my stables, with how protective you Elvhen lot are about them. But the Commander here,” he nodded towards Cullen, “seems to have procured you one regardless.”  
She looked at Cullen with big eyes, seemingly unsure of what to say, and he smiled gently as he gave her a little push. “Go meet her,” he said with a lopsided smile, warmth spreading inside him when he saw her incredulous look at the Hart. She walked over swiftly, cooing at it in Elven and resting her forehead against the animal’s. The mount seemed quite taken with her new owner, bugling loudly and making her jump up and laugh as she tried to calm her down, giggling in between enthusiastic Elven words. He turned to leave, wanting to give her some time to enjoy getting to know her new friend, when he suddenly heard his name called out.

“Cullen!”

She ran at him, grinning widely before standing on the tips of her toes and pressing the softest kiss on his cheek. “Ma serannas,” she said cheerfully, knocking him breathless with how close she was and the way her face was beaming with excitement. He had never seen her smile as much as this, and even though he had gotten somewhat used to it, she could still make his mind go completely blank when she focused that grin on him. “Y-you’re welcome,” he stuttered, cursing himself for not being able to just get out a _damned sentence_ when she was talking to him. Siiri gave him a knowing look, and after quickly pressing her hand to his breastplate ran back to the Hart, talking excitedly to Dennet about how to take care of the animal.

 

Maker’s breath, if that was how she responded to gifts, he would have to find her some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual, comments and kudos are very appreciated, as well as concrit <3 Let me know what you think!


	3. Chess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took way longer than I expected it to, sorry! I've been writing, but it's mostly things that will happen later in the timeline... Which means I couldn't post any of it. Thank you to all of you lovely people who have left comments, kudos or have subscribed - my heart skips a beat every time I get a notification! <3 <3
> 
> Here's a (relatively short) chapter to tide you over. I've got so many things planned for when these dorks finally get together, but I want to take it slow (which I'm sure I will regret at some point.)

He loved seeing her ears twitch.

They did it ever so slightly, on multiple occasions, and he liked trying to catalogue all of the different moments he had seen her do it. When she was nervous, they twitched, seemingly laying flatter against her skull as she looked at whatever made her nervous. Loud noises seemed to startle her, and her ears always responded. Anger made them move brusquely, like the time someone had called her a knife-ear behind her back.

Or that time when she had made him laugh, a deep, rumbling noise bubbling up from within his chest, and her eyes had widened ever so slightly as her ears almost seemed to flutter. It had startled him, and they had both turned away to hide their flushing cheeks.

Sometimes he caught himself staring at her, admiring the way her face looked in the sunlight. She was always covered in earth, smears on her face and dirt underneath her fingernails, with that lovely, earthy smell that seemed to follow her wherever she went. Just having her near him calmed him down, eased the tremors that wrecked his body when the need for lyrium was worse than usual. She sought him out more now, dropping in to his office for seemingly no reason, always carrying some kind of herb or potion that would help with his headaches. He was pretty sure that she had enlisted Cook in her plans, because a serving girl would come every evening with a tray of food if he didn’t show up in the Great Hall for dinner. The thought of Siiri making sure that he ate every night usually made him feel guilty when he let it go cold, so he tried to eat at least a bit every time.

One day she found him in the garden, wrapped up in a game of chess with Dorian. The man twirled his moustache and teased Cullen more than he played – or rather _cheated_ – but he was good companionship, and an excellent chess player when he actually paid attention. Despite all of the mysteriously disappearing pieces and constant needling, he noticed that he had the mage in a pinch, and smirked. “Gloat all you like,” he said with a rare touch of smugness, “I have this one.” He took Dorian’s sassy retort and rolled his eyes, sighing as he moved in to move another piece. “Why do I even…”  
He caught the flash of auburn hair from the corner of his eyes, and of course he turned into a bumbling fool from the moment he realized it was the Inquisitor. It felt as if she had caught him in this relaxed moment, but she smiled as he awkwardly tried to get up, signalling him to stay seated. Dorian quipped about him winning, with a sparkle in his eyes that made it clear that he knew _very well_ why Cullen was fumbling, and Cullen glared at him before slowly lowering himself onto the chair. “Please,” Siiri said, obviously amused, “don’t stop on my account.” Her eyes drifted over the chessboard, seemingly interested, and Cullen watched Dorian carefully as he made his next move. It was hard to hide his smile when the man boasted, not realizing that he was moving his piece in such a way that he would have a perfect opening to his King. “Oh, but I’ve just won,” he said as he moved his Queen in position to checkmate his King, “and I feel fine.” He couldn’t help the grin that was plastered to his face now, gloating in his victory. Dorian quickly left to lick his wounds, and somehow, he ended up with Siiri on the chair in front of him.

“Do you like chess?” he asked, an almost hopeful look on his face. She shook her head, frowning as she focused on the pieces. “I don’t know, it’s not played among the Dalish,” she said with wonder in her voice, picking up a rook and studying the finely crafted piece. “We have something that resembles your checkers, though, but chess always seemed a bit more intricate.”  
“Would you like to learn?”  
She looked up at that, ears slightly twitching as she appraised him. “If you’re willing to teach me,” she said softly, and Cullen felt his heart skip a beat. “O-Of course,” he said, stumbling over his words before he rubbed the back of his neck, feeling self-conscious. He couldn’t turn down the prospect of spending time with her, so he quickly set the board, explaining all of the pieces to her. She paid rapt attention, nodding every so often to indicate that she understood, ears twitching slightly as she took in the information.

It was honestly a bit distracting, and he found himself studying her when she was contemplating her moves. The tiniest frown appeared between her eyebrows, and she worried her lip with her teeth, small and white against the plump, pink flesh. He found himself smiling and tried to hide it behind his hand, pretending to just be pondering his own moves.

 

_Maker’s breath, man, pay attention to the game. She’s not here to be ogled by you._

She was a quick learner, though she missed experience and didn’t see through his more long-term plans. They played one game mostly in silence as she tried to soak up all of the information, sometimes asking quiet questions about rules or strategies. He drew out the game, trying not to defeat her too early on, and she shot him a glance when he eventually took her King that told him she knew exactly what he was doing. He smirked, handing her piece back to her, and swallowing when she took it from him, slender fingers brushing his.

“As a child, I used to play this with my sister,” he mused as they set the board again. “She would get this stuck-up grin when she won, which was… all the time.”  
“Like you do with Dorian?” she joked, looking up at him for a second before placing her pawns on the board. Cullen laughed, shrugging slightly to admit his guilt before continuing his story. “My brother and I practiced together for weeks. Oh, the look on her face the day I finally won… Between serving the Templars and the Inquisition, I haven’t seen them in years. I wonder if she still plays.”

The board was set, and he gestured to her to make the first move. She looked up at him with that amused look on her face and moved her first pawn. “Tell me about your siblings,” she said softly, looking up at him before she settled back into the chair, relaxing.

They spent the better part of an hour talking, about his family, his home in Honnleath, and Cullen slowly felt the tension he didn’t know he was carrying draining from him. He asked her about her family, realizing that he had never thought about who she had left behind. Siiri opened up more when talking about her Clan, her mother and her sibling. “Taralin always got me into trouble,” she sighed, moving her rook aggressively, which made Cullen smile. “He was a wild child in his younger years, but seems to be straightening out now. He was apprenticed to the halla keeper when I left. Mamae was worried that he would never find something that would keep his attention for long enough to stop him causing mischief.” She told him about the daily life in the Clan, her duties as First and the people she had lived with. By the time they had ended their game, her eyes had become somewhat distant, as if she was thinking of days past.

He studied her for a while, feeling sorry for her. Her Clan obviously meant a lot to her, and now she was taken away from all of that, turned into a Herald of a faith she did not believe in, a symbol of the humans that had taken so much from her race. Sometimes he wondered if it chafed, if it was troublesome to her to be a figurehead for something so obviously _human_ , despite her efforts to include more Elves into the Inquisition. But then her eyes flickered back up to him, and they flooded with a warmth that made him blush just the tiniest bit. “This was nice,” she said gently. “I like learning chess. We should… spend more time together.” She said it almost hesitantly, eyes glued to his face as if she expected him to not feel the same way.

His words betrayed him again as he struggled to get out an answer, surprised by her statement. “I would… like that,” he admitted, repressing the urge to rub the back of his neck. Her entire face lit up as she looked at him, smiling widely as her ears twitched. “Me too,” she said, sounding _so_ enthusiastic that his heart skipped a beat. “You said that,” he murmured, sounding almost unbelieving. He was a Templar, a human, and probably everything her Keeper had taught her to distrust. But here she was, spending time with him, telling him that this was something she would like to do _more_ , and he felt so unworthy of it. But when she looked at him and tilted her head, looking so pleased that he had agreed with her, he couldn’t help but hope. _I have to tell her,_ he thought, clearing his throat. _She deserves to know, about the Lyrium._ Would it make her turn away, if she did? Would she no longer want to spend more time with him if she knew he was a recovering addict?

_She’s not like that,_ he told himself sternly, trying to silence the voice inside of him.

“We’ll do this again,” he promised, a smile pulling up the corner of his mouth. She rewarded him with a brilliant smile – she could still knock the air out of his lungs when she did that – and nodded as she cleared the board. “Soon,” she said with a smile, and he couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Some confessions, and some more awkward pining!


	4. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen finally opens up to Siiri about his withdrawal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I didn't put out a chapter last week, here's an extra one! I hope you enjoy it!

He had been pacing in his office all day, waiting for her to show up.

Once he had made up his mind about telling her about the Lyrium, the thought of it had constantly been on his mind, burrowing under his skin like a parasite. On one hand, he wanted her to know, hoping that she would understand. On the other… He grunted, pinching the bridge of his nose as he breathed out slowly.

_Broken, useless, branded a Templar forever. You know you want it, the sweet song, the beautiful blue…_

How it taunted him, making the back of his throat dry, knowing that he could fix everything just by _taking it-_

“Cullen?”

He blinked, seeing her stand before him suddenly, and out of reflex put his hand on the pommel of his sword. Grounding, steady, secure. _Commander._ Siiri looked up at him with worry in her eyes, hand hovering above his forearm. “Forgive me,” he said softly, “my thoughts were… preoccupied.”  
“I have more of those herbs if you want them,” she said after a heartbeat of silence, as if she was trying to read him. “Maybe later,” he relented eventually, sighing as the tension left his body. His eyes slid over to the box on his desk and he straightened his back, looking briefly at her before avoiding her thoughtful gaze. “As leader of the Inquisition, you… there is something I must tell you.”

“Whatever it is, I am willing to listen, _ma falon,_ ” she murmured, and he could see in the way she looked at him that she realized what he was about to tell her. She did not push him, did not try and fish out more than he was willing to give, and that made him feel more secure about doing this. Slowly, he nodded, looking straight at her.

“Lyrium grants Templars our abilities, but it controls us as well. Those cut off suffer. Some go mad, others die.”   
He remembered the days where old Templars had left the Circle, without so much of a ceremony or an honourable discharge. They were given a final draft of lyrium, to settle the never-ending tremors and distant looks one last time, and were sent away to Maker knows where. Years of servitude, and all they got in return was a broken body and a leashed mind, and the Chantry casting them off. He had been young, and didn’t think that one day it could be _him_ walking out of there with what little memories he still had, a permanent craving for the blue on his tongue and the song in his bones.

One day, after the mess that had been _Meredith,_ he had seen an old Templar who had once mentored him roaming the streets of Kirkwall, begging for Lyrium, or the money to buy some, much like Samson had done. Ser Hunn no longer knew his own name, or Cullen’s, insisting that he was still a Templar and just off duty for a while. _I need some Lyrium, ser,_ he had mumbled over and over. _Just a drop to quench the thirst._

It could have been him.

“We have secured a reliable source of Lyrium for the Templars here,” he said, “but I - I no longer take it.”

_Why,_ his bones lamented, his muscles aching. _It would be so good, Knight-Commander. Just a sip. You could protect her so well. Isn’t that what you want?_

“You stopped?”

Her voice shook him from his reverie, and Cullen looked down again at the box. “When I joined the Inquisition,” he murmured. “It’s been months now.” Months of lying and wishing he could tell her, but the _fear_ of her turning her back at him had kept him from it. He did not want her to see him as he was, broken and addicted. Barely functioning.

“Cullen,” she said, her accent heavier than ever as a slight form of panic seemed to settle in her voice, “if this can _kill_ you…”

“It hasn’t yet,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose to will the headache that was forming away. It didn’t help. “After what happened in Kirkwall I couldn’t… I will not be bound to the Order, or that life, any longer.” Saying it out loud always seemed to reinforce it, and he used the words to brace himself, standing up again and looking her in the eyes. Her face was a strange mask, as if she tried to be neutral, but was one step away from losing control. “Whatever the suffering, I accept it. But I would not put the Inquisition at risk. I’ve asked Cassandra to… watch me. If my ability to lead is compromised, I will be relieved from duty.”

He deserved the suffering, he thought grimly. The man he had been in his youth, the man Lyrium had made him… _No,_ he sighed inwardly, _it had not been the Lyrium’s fault. It had been his own making, and now he would do his best to undo it._ He wondered if she thought it was what he deserved, being a Templar. But then she spoke, in the softest of voices.

“Are you in pain?”

She sounded as if it hurt her to see him in pain, and Cullen’s eyes softened. “I can endure it,” he promised her. It didn’t seem to put her at ease as much as he had wanted, but her concern warmed his heart.  

There was a long silence, in which she looked like she was trying to see right through him, and Cullen averted his eyes. Seeing that, she started to speak again. “My keeper told me something one night,” she reminisced softly. “About humans. _They call us savages for living in the woods while they live in houses,_ she said, _but they are the ones who lock up their mages and call it good. There can be no good in captivity, or in a people who advocate it so passionately._ ” Cullen’s shoulders slumped and he gripped the pommel of his sword tighter, hand shaking as he listened. Her voice softened as she walked closer to the desk, closing the Lyrium box and taking it in her hands. “But there _is_ good in you,” she said firmly, gripping the wood of the box so hard that her knuckles turned white, and he looked up at her with a fragile hope in his eyes. “There is _so much_ goodwill in you, Cullen.”  
“There wasn’t always,” he whispered, seeing a young man in his mind begging for the murder of an entire Circle. So blinded by hatred and paranoia that he would rather see all of the mages in the Circle die than face his prejudice.  
“But there is _now_.” Siiri locked eyes with him, making him look back at her. “You saw what was wrong with your Order, and left it. You saw what was wrong in your heart, and tried to mend it. You saw you were leashed, and broke free.” Her eyes burned with a passion that he had rarely seen, and fixed on him it felt like balm on a wound. “I respect what you’re doing,” she said eventually, softening a bit. “Thank you. For telling me.”

She stood there, looking so relieved that he had confided in her, and he felt silly for keeping it from her for so long. His pride, the fear of what she might think of him had kept him from it, and now he found nothing but acceptance in her. “I was afraid you would…” He didn’t finish his sentence, and she pursed her lips. “That I would judge you? Think differently of you? That I would think it only fair because of what you were?”

She said _were,_ not _are_. He let go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding, deflating a little.

“Yes.”

Siiri sighed, sitting on the edge of his desk as she looked at him. She was so small, perched on top of the table like a little bird, looking up at him with those bright eyes, reading him like a book. _She did not turn away._ He let her scent ground her, the refreshing note of elfroot and clean dirt, and the faintest hint of elderflower slowly relaxing his muscles.

They fell quiet for a long time, the only thing disturbing the silence being the soft clanging of swords against shields from the courtyard down below.

“When I first came here, I feared you,” she admitted quietly, not looking at him but tracing the grain of the philter box with her fingernails. “Being a Dalish mage, we often learn from a young age to be wary of Templars. We lost our Clan’s original First to a Templar raid.”

He closed his eyes, willing himself to be steady, even as he felt the dread settle in his stomach. Siiri hugged the box to her body, voice contemplative as she continued. “I’m sure you noticed that I kept an eye on you. A Templar and a _shemlen_ ,” she murmured, almost amused when using the term, “I’m sure you would have been Deshanna’s worst nightmare. So I watched, sure that you would show your true colours. And you did.” He looked at her with a hurt expression on his face, and she smiled lopsidedly. “They were good true colours, Cullen,” she said softly, putting her hand on his bracers like she always did. “You are nothing like what I was taught to fear. Not _anymore_ ,” she said, holding up her hand when she saw that he was ready to speak up. “Besides, Cassandra would have clubbed me over the head if I kept throwing nasty glances your way. _The Commander is not a Templar anymore,_ ” she said, mimicking Cassandra’s Nevarran accent with remarkable and slightly unsettling accuracy. “It just took me a while before I saw it. But you burn with such a desire to be _different_ , and I could not fault you for that. It would have been unfair.” She smiled at him, patting his arm before bringing her hand back to the box. “I will take this.” Looking at it briefly, she got up from his desk, and he instantly missed having her so close. A brief, panicked feeling flashed through his body at the idea of giving up the philter, but he tried to suppress it. “You don’t need it,” she said gently. “You’re strong enough. I trust you.”

_You are strong enough._ _I trust you._ She sounded so confident in him that it made him smile, despite everything, not knowing that she had shook his entire world when she told him that she trusted him. “Thank you,” he said, unable to convey the full extent of his gratitude in the words, but trying regardless. Siiri just nodded, and with a last smile turned and walked out of the room, her trust so freely given that she didn’t think twice about it.

_You are strong enough._ And for her, he would be.


	5. Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen stumbles, and Siiri picks him up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's a Cullen romance without a fair bit of angst?

He had forgotten how light he could feel, now that the heavy burden of having to talk to Siiri about his withdrawal had lifted. It felt like he could breathe again, repeating the words she had said in his head.

_You’re strong enough. I trust you._

She trusted him.

His work seemed neverending still, but he got through it quicker than before. The tremor in his hands had died down to something manageable, the muscle spasms seemed to have ceased and it felt like he could breathe again. The troops seemed to pick up on his better mood, smiling every now and then when he corrected them during training, despite his attempts at a stern look. Their smiles got wider whenever Siiri would pass by as he was training them, and Cullen’s stuttering and blushing did nothing to help that. Sometimes he feared he was too obvious about his infatuation with her, but she never seemed to give a hint of discomfort.

Or anything _more_.

Always attentive, she leaned in when they were speaking, always giving him her full attention. She would put her hand on his vambrace if she wanted his attention, her touch seemingly casual, never hesitant. But she did this to others, too, not just him.

Sometimes, he thought… The way she looked at him, with tenderness in her eyes and a slight twitch to her ears, that it meant _something_. But every time he dared to hope, that voice inside his head took over.

She brought him tea and drafts for his headaches, as if she was trying to support him. _Or she pities you,_ the voice whispered, its venom seeping into his bones. _A nurse to a sick man, not a woman and her lover. She’s the type of person to take in a stray, or a failed Templar._ She played chess with him when the weather was nice and they would sit in the gazebo, talking about chess strategies and their families, as if she wanted to get to know him. _Or just needed to pass the time, learning chess and nothing more. Why would she want to get closer to you, a human?_ She would look at him from the other side of the war table, a mild smile on her lips and looks that lingered just a bit too long. _Trying to figure out if you are still fit for duty,_ hissed the voice, and Cullen stopped trying to catch her gaze when he felt it on him, hands trembling. _You aren’t, and we both know it._

_Useless._

And after that great relief of telling the truth, came the crash.

One of Leliana’s scouts found him on the floor one morning, groaning and doubled over on the ground, muscles spasming so hard that he could no longer move. He was still wearing his armour, making it impossible for the scouts to carry him up the ladder with all the added weight, and they had to call Bull in to take him upstairs. It was _humiliating_ , and he made Leliana swear that she would not tell the Inquisitor. She did not like being told what to do, and he could see that she would have words with him about it later, but the pallor of his skin and convulsing of his body seemed to make her relent, for now. The troops were told that the Commander was busy and not to be disturbed, and Rylen took over his training duties. Cullen was forced to rest, but it only made the thoughts mill around more in his head, over and over.

_Useless. Unworthy. Unloved._

Sleep was something he craved and feared at the same time. When he did slip into the Fade, Siiri was there, looking at him with disappointment in her eyes and sadness in her voice. _“I trusted you,”_ she would whisper. _“You are not strong enough.”_

He woke up in cold sweats, trembling all over, and stifled a sob with the palm of his hand. _Maker_ , he felt like an old man, with nothing but aches and bad memories, and a never-ending thirst for the blue.

 

_Useless._

 

She came by once, and he recognised her light steps before she climbed up the ladder.

He pretended to be asleep, knowing she would not try to wake him. She only left after she had waited for two hours, and the pit of guilt in his belly only grew deeper.

He isolated himself completely, sinking deeper every day.

It was on the fourth day that he suddenly heard a noise on the roof, and he jerked up in his bed, hand reaching for the dagger that was always next to his bed. His eyes widened when he suddenly saw Siiri’s head through the hole in his roof, and his heart skipped a beat.

“W-what are you doing?” he stuttered, his voice in between disbelief and anger. What was she thinking, climbing on the _Fade-damned roof?_

“You can distinguish my steps,” she admonished him gently. “I know that you were awake when I came to visit you. So I figured out a way of getting here without going through your office.” She huffed, slipping through the hole and landing without a noise on the floorboards, which was impressive considering they creaked like hell when he stepped on them. “I thought that you wouldn’t pretend to be asleep if someone came through your roof.”

Cullen swallowed, his cheeks heating in shame. Her eyes lingered on him, and he cleared his throat, putting the dagger back to the side. He must look like a mess, he thought. It had been days since he had shaven, let alone taken a bath, and this was _not_ how he wanted her to see him. His hand rubbed the back of his neck in an attempt to ease the tension that had started there, but the shaking made it inefficient. “I…”

“I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through, Cullen,” she said softly, “but you can not shut me out like this.” Her eyes softened, almost pleading. “Please, don’t shut me out like this,” she said, and Cullen felt his breath catch in his throat at her almost _begging_ him.

Silence fell between them, and she stood there, watching him as if she was waiting for him to speak up. He didn’t, not knowing what to say, his tongue tied in to many  knots in her presence. Siiri sighed, but then got a determined expression on her face and walked to the water basin by his armour stand, heating the water in it. The scent of her magic hit him, but did not make him nauseous, and he was grateful for that.

“What are you doing?” Cullen asked, confused. She worked in silence, taking his razor from the dresser and bringing everything to the bed. “You are done wallowing,” she said firmly, sitting down in front of him on the bed. “You are going to shave, and put on that armour, and be the Commander I know you to be.”

He swallowed, forcing back the burning in his eyes. His eyes cast downwards as his breath caught, his head hung low in shame. “My hands tremble too much,” he admitted, fingers absently stroking a cut on his jaw from when he had last tried to shave.  
She was quiet for a while, eyes locked on the wound, and then ducked her head lower so she could look him in the eyes. “Then I will do it for you.”  
There was a steely determination in her eyes, and he knew that look all too well – nothing would dissuade her now. Cullen let himself sink into her eyes for a moment, feeling the tension leaving his body. Eventually, he nodded, sitting up a bit straighter as she flashed him a sad smile and passed him the shaving cream.

His hands were shaky, but he managed to coat his beard in the cream, rubbing it in to make it foamy. Siiri waited patiently, taking the tub from him before scooting a little bit closer and bringing the blade to his jaw.

It was so intimate, her sitting there, so close to him that he could feel the small puffs of her breath on his skin as she concentrated, her eyebrows furrowed. Her ears laid back low as she started to move the blade along his skin, cleaning it in the warm water. Fingers moved deftly, finding the curves of his face easily, shaving him as if she had done so all her life.

She hummed quietly as she did it, the sunlight hitting her auburn hair in such a way that it made it glow, warm and comforting. The domesticity of it all warmed him, filled him with a yearning. She tipped back his head, and he closed his eyes. He had never been this comfortable with someone holding a blade so close to his throat, he thought dryly. With every rasp of the blade over his stubble, he felt his mind settle down more, until he was in an almost peaceful state. She finished quickly, looking at him with approval before she took the cologne – or so Josephine always called it – and rubbed it in her hands. She patted the product onto his cheeks, making him hiss slightly because of the burn, and she smiled apologetically. “That’s better,” she said, obviously pleased with her work before her eyes slid up to his hair. “Or as good as we’ll get it without a bath, at least, but that can wait till later. I didn’t know you styled your hair, Commander.”

The teasing lilt in her voice made his face flush crimson, and he quickly covered the curls with his hand, though it was not like that mattered now. Her giggle only made him blush deeper, and he grumbled something about the pomade being on the dresser.

She got up, all lithe limbs and grace, and sat back on the bed with the pomade in her hand. “Come here.”

He hesitantly leant forwards, and she smiled brightly as she slid the pomade through his hair, taming the unruly curls back into place. The feeling of her hands moving through his hair was soothing, more so than he dared to admit as he sat there in silence, enjoying the quiet intimacy.

She stayed with him as he put on his armour, fastening the belts and buckles when his fingers were too clumsy to do so. He thought it would have been hard to ask for help, but she was always there, without a word of complaint, as if this was the most normal thing. As if she did it all the time.

_Maker, but he wished._

He looked down at her when she was securing the final buckles of his chestplate, a soft smile on her lips as she patted him gently and looked up at him. She was so close that he could just lower his head and kiss those lips until he forgot his own name. For a moment, it looked like she came closer, looking up at him from under her eyelashes.

“Thank you,” he said, almost breathlessly.

She looked at him, hands fiddling with the furs he always wore. “You can ask for help, you know,” she said. “Especially from me.”

“I don’t want to be an inconvenience,” he said, voice low. “I don’t want to – to disappoint you.”

“You couldn’t.” Her voice was soft, but firm as she smoothed over a stray curl. “Never. Not in this.”

He closed his eyes as her fingers touched his cheek ever so fleetingly, but still a touch nevertheless. “I am sorry,” he said earnestly. “This… This has never come easy to me. Accepting help.”  
“I find most men are as stubborn as a druffalo in this aspect, both Elvhen and humans,” she stated, gently chiding him. Her voice softened as she continued. “It’s not your fault that you’ve been taught to keep your troubles inside, Cullen. But it is time to change that.”

“I know,” he admitted. “I will try.”

“What you are doing is not easy, but it’s brave.” Her hand rested on his chest, and he could feel her warmth through the armour. “You will stumble and fall. But you will also get up again.”

“You have such faith in me,” he said with a soft laugh, though there was no happiness in it.

“I do.” She sounded solid, unwavering, and he looked back at her. “And I will keep telling you until you believe it yourself.”

He wanted to kiss her so badly that it _hurt_. Wanted to be that man that she saw when she looked at him, somehow.

“Let’s go,” she said, a slight smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You have troops to inspect, and I am keen to see how they have improved under your tutelage. You would not say no to the _Inquisitor,_ right?”

He laughed, shaking his head before descending the ladder down to his office, for the first time in days feeling a _bit_ like the man he wanted to be. And even if he stumbled again, he knew now that she would be there to catch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want them to get together, but I also do like that slow buildup where they're basically becoming lovers without being lovers, if that makes sense. Just me? Haha! Comments, kudos and feedback very welcome as usual!


	6. Andraste's Cheese

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cultural exchange, and some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to schedule this update but I don't know if/how you can do that on AO3 so y'all are just getting an early update! I'm going on a holiday to France for a week, and I'll be travelling down to my parents the week after, so there might be a lapse in chapters, I'm sorry! I can't take my laptop along as it is hardly alive anymore, so I can't post while I'm there. I will try to have one more lined up for next weekend and see if I can post it from my phone so I'm not too far behind on this.
> 
> Here's something a bit more light-hearted, I hope you enjoy!

“What in the _Maker’s name_ is this?”

“Cullen! You can’t just decide based on appearance.”

“Maker’s breath, it’s not the appearance, it’s the _smell_ of the thing!”

“Come on, _ma falon._ You said you would try. For me.”

At this, he threw her a disgusted glance, but the sweet look she gave him when she called him _friend_ was something he could not resist. He sighed, _deeply,_ casting her one last pleading glance which she handily dismantled with a brilliant smile, as if she knew he was going to give in.

“Fine. I’ll taste the damned halla cheese.”

A parcel had arrived for her from her clan, with a note from her mother that she should eat well while she was with the _shemlen,_ and it came with some typical Dalish… delicacies. Sera had muttered at some of the cookies included, whispering that they were “just not _right_ ”, and that said something coming from the elf who enjoyed making _broccoli cookies_ , telling everyone that it was the only way to make her eat vegetables on a daily basis.

Broccoli cookies. Was nothing sacred?

Siiri had mostly enjoyed the food by herself, although he had seen her offer Josephine some kind of biscuit which she had very diplomatically declined, a slightly unsettled look on her face as she sniffed the baked goods.

It was all fun and games until she decided that she was going to have _him_ try something, too. And she knew he couldn’t refuse her.

They had gotten closer since she had pulled him back from his isolation, spending more time playing chess in the garden and finding reasons to talk to him in between her work. She was a fast learner, so they were soon able to talk about things while playing without losing focus of the game. It became a habit to teach him more Elvhen during the games, telling him things about her clan and the way she had lived with the Dalish. And that’s where she had sprung the question on him, so innocently that he had walked head-first into her trap.

“You’re always so interested in the Dalish,” she said with a sweet smile, “surely you would like to try our cuisine?” He had been so busy clearing his throat and trying not to say that he was mostly interested in _her_ that he had stammered out a vague agreement, and her eyes had lit up immediately. The cheese had been procured quickly, out of a bag he hadn’t even noticed she had before, and presented to him. The scent hit him first, earthy and pungent, reminding him of a mix between that weird Orlesian blue cheese – which was basically just _spoiled cheese,_ and then they dared to make fun of Ferelden cuisine? – and goat’s cheese, neither of which he particularly liked. It looked funny as well, paler than regular cheese, and overall it was just not very appealing. They had gone back and forth for a while, but eventually she had sliced him a piece and offered it to him. Cullen was reluctant to accept it, looking at it with a hint of disgust in his face, brows knotted together. She sighed, taking the piece back and peeling off the skin before she offered it to him again. “Come on, eat it.”

“I’m not so sure, Siiri. It looks like it might be off.”

“It’s not!” An indignant huff followed her statement, as if she was insulted he would suggest she was trying to feed him spoiled goods.

“It seems weird to eat cheese made from halla’s milk.”

“Is it so different from a goat or cow? Your Andraste travelled with an Elf, did she not? She probably had this same cheese. Wouldn’t you want to try the cheese your prophet _possibly_ ate?”

He gave her an unimpressed look, which had her throw her head back in laughter – _Maker,_ she was beautiful when she laughed like that, all joy and sparkling eyes - before she impulsively reached over the chessboard and brought the cheese to his lips.

“Just a bite,” she murmured, “for me.”

He looked at her, eyes wide and face flushed. She had an almost teasing look on her face, lips lightly parted as she locked eyes with him, as if she was daring him.

So he leant forward, never breaking away from her gaze, and took a bite of the cheese.

It tasted horrible, but he found it hard to concentrate on the flavour when his lips had just touched her fingers _ever so slightly,_ her breath hitching in her throat as he did. The smug look on her face fell when she realized that he had risen to the bait, changing into amazement. He found it impossible to look away from her as she slowly started blushing, all the way to the tips of her ears, which were nervously twitching. He thought of that morning in his bedroom, where she had been so close that he could smell her, elderflower and elfroot mixed together in a refreshing fragrance that was so _her._ She had been close enough to kiss then, and so far away at the same time.

 _She was close now,_ he thought.  _So close he could kiss her, if he dared to._

_Would she let him?_

 

He wondered if she could hear his heart beat, because it thundered in his chest as if it was going to leap out. It felt as if time stood still for a moment, suspended in this tension that he felt mounting as she looked at him, her pupils slightly dilating as she took him  in. Her eyes were so large and full of expression, even more so since they had become friends and she no longer kept up that guard she had carefully maintained in the beginning. She let him see  _her,_ not just the Inquisitor, and it made his heart ache for more. There was a loud noise, followed by Sera's cackling and some Sisters shouting at the elf, who blew raspberries at them before handily running away from the crime scene. It broke the moment, her eyes quickly flitting over to the mess Sera had made before she looked at the angry Sisters, a lopsided grin on her face. He started in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried (in vain) to calm down. Her eyes found his, and with a twinkle of her eyes she popped the remaining bit of cheese in her mouth, an amused expression on her face.

“Your move,” she murmured with a smile after she had moved her chess piece - looking smug again, despite the blush on her face still prominently there - looking up at him from underneath her eyelashes, and for some reason he didn’t think she was just talking about the chess game.

 _Maker’s breath,_ he thought absently. _She will be the death of me._


	7. Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! I was on holiday for two weeks with no access to a PC (or internet for half that time!) I hope you enjoy the new chapter! To make up for the long wait I should have another chapter up in a couple of days and then I will resume the regular posting schedule.

His idea of religion is the smell of heavy, almost nauseating yet still soothing incense, the words of the Prophet, sung in unison by a congregation gathered to sing praise to the Maker and what he has wrought. It’s sunlight beaming down through stained windows, scattering a kaleidoscope of colours over the floor and spilling into the Chantry, warming the otherwise cold stones. The smell of wax, slowly burning, the sputtering of the flames and the soft way it lights up the building. It’s the face of Andraste, looking down at him in the small chapel as he bends on one knee in supplication, hands clasped together as he prays for her benevolence. Even on the days where his body aches and his muscles tremble, he goes to the chapel, kneeling down despite his discomfort. He would light the candles, one by one – usually not even the Chantry sisters had come in yet at the time he arrived – and bend his head, letting it rest on his hands as he prayed. He prayed for many things – that his withdrawal might ease, that he was doing the _right_ thing, that their cause would succeed. And for _her._

For her, it was sunshine seeping down from above the trees, voices raised in prayer and laughter. A way of life, rituals and prayer and the _vallaslin_ , a devotion etched onto the skin, written in blood. Stories and parables told to children in front of campfires, under the sails of _aravels_ , an oral history brought down from Keeper to Keeper through the ages. She relayed to him the stories of her pantheon, the Dread Wolf, the _Vir Tanadhal_ and what it meant to her. At first, she had been hesitant to open up to him about her religion, but as she spoke a sense of nostalgia seemed to envelop her, and he gladly let her talk. She spoke like a patient teacher, her training as First peeking through when she spoke of her Gods and why she had picked June for her _vallaslin_.

She told him she had been training as the clan’s master craftsman apprentice, until her magic came. Her deft fingers slid over the leather she was working on, pushing the needle in slowly and securely as she made the final stitches. He had found her sitting underneath the large tree in the garden, working on a set of bracers. There were a hundred reports he could probably be looking at right now, but she had smiled so softly when she had spotted him, and Cullen couldn’t walk away. She told him how she had set a clearing on fire after being startled by one of the _halla,_ to endless amusement of her Keeper, who had doused the flames quickly. Her life had changed after that, and her face held a tinge of sorrow when she explained that she could no longer be apprenticed to the craftsman after that. Yet she had never stopped practicing, keeping up her craft even when her studies took up more and more of her time. It was through her craft that she had found the god she wanted to honour with her vallaslin.

“Without June, we would not have the _aravels_. We would not know how to craft our bows, our armour, and would not be able to lead the lives we live now as Dalish. He gave me purpose when I was a child, and even if I could not walk down his path, he is still important to me.” She smiled lopsidedly, suddenly seeming more serious. “I bring so much death nowadays,” she spoke softly, “being able to create every now and then feels nice.”  
“You are doing important work,” he said gently as she finished up the stitches, and Siiri smiled up at him.  
“I know, but it doesn’t make taking lives easier. So much of it could have been avoided.” She sighed, but then smiled again and took his hand in hers. Before he could protest, she had removed his bracers and started tying the ones she had been working on to his forearms as he watched in stunned silence. “They look good on you,” she murmured, looking pleased. “I’m glad I got the size right. You humans are always so big compared to us.”

 

He was speechless, exploring the bracers with his fingers. They were intricately detailed, with a lion’s head embossed on the back of them. The stitching was fine and precise, obviously done with great care and patience, and there was some delicate Elven embroidery on the edges. Working the leather like this was beyond the skill of a mere craftsman, and almost in the realms of a master. He wondered how long it had taken her to make this.

 

When he stayed quiet, she seemed to get nervous and cleared her throat. “You don’t have to wear them,” she said softly. “I mean, I know you usually wear the metal vambraces, but I wanted to-“

“They’re amazing,” he breathed, looking up at her. “Thank you.”

A smile lit up her face, and she flushed so prettily that his breath caught in his throat. “I’m so relieved,” she laughed, “you looked like you were going to give them back.”  
“N-no, I was just… stunned. I don’t know what I did to deserve this, though. It’s beautiful.” Cullen smiled, stroking the lion’s head with his fingers.  
“You’re my friend,” she said simply, a soft look in her eyes. “And I enjoy doing it. Giving gifts is… important in Dalish clans.”

Something told him that she meant more than she was saying, but he couldn’t figure out _what_. He made a mental note to ask Solas about it later. Siiri seemed a bit put out when he didn’t respond, but quickly regained her composure and pointed at his old bracers. “Also, all of your other armour still bears the Templar insignia. I thought you might enjoy owning something without it.”

 

He hadn’t even considered it. The Inquisition would have paid for a new armour for him, but he felt bad taking up resources that could be going to those who needed it more. His armour was good, and sturdy, and it would be a waste to just throw it away because he was no longer a Templar. But having the bracers… It gave him some kind of closure, as if another tie to his previous life had been cut, one he did not even realise was there. “It’s very thoughtful,” he said. “Thank you, _ma falon_.” She grinned when he used the endearment, and he marvelled again at how frequently she smiled now, compared to when she had just joined the Inquisition. He hoped he played a part in that, and with an absent smile Cullen leaned back against the tree as she followed suit.

 

“Will you tell me more about your gods?”

“Won’t the Maker be upset if he finds out that you’re asking about the Elven gods?” she teased, but then obliged with a smile in her voice.

 

 

When he asked Solas about the traditions concerning gifts in Dalish clans, the elf sniffed derisively and shrugged. “I know not what their specifics are, but if I am not mistaken, it is not done lightly.” His eyes narrowed as he studied Cullen, suddenly calculating when he noticed the distinctly Elven bracers. Something about the way he looked at him made it feel like he was disapproving, and Cullen instinctively stood taller. Solas noticed, and sighed. “In a Dalish clan, giving gifts would be a serious occasion, akin to asking someone to bond – or marry, as you would call it. Then again, that would be among _elves_. I’m sure that when gifting to _humans_ there is less… commitment. One might change their habits to fit in more with the humans, after all.”

 

_Back off,_ he seemed to be telling Cullen, and his eyes hardened as he looked at the elf. He clenched his jaw, trying not to raise his voice. “Would you like to speak more plainly, Solas?” he said calmly, though his eyes betrayed his anger.

“If you want me to,” he replied coolly. “She would be shunned in her Clan if she were to take a human for a mate, especially being a First. She is to be Keeper one day, and she could not do so if she had… unwise attachments.”

Cullen growled lowly. “It would be her _choice,_ ” he countered, barely keeping the calm in his voice. His heart skipped a beat at the implication that she _wanted_ that attachment to him, though his thoughts could not linger on it now.

“It would be choosing to live a life away from her Clan, from the People, and a way of life so different from everything she had before. She would choose wrongly.” Solas folded his hands behind his back, looking unimpressed. “I’m sure you have better things to do than converse with me, Commander. I will keep you no longer.”

 

It was all he could do to not slam the door on the way out, fists clenched and the fury boiling hot within him. Cullen paced his office as he thought, slowly cooling down, wondering if Solas had spoken the truth.

 

_She would choose wrongly._

He thought of her smile, the way she had looked at him when she had tied the bracers to his forearm. How she always seemed to know when he had a headache, and suddenly procured some kind of report so she had an excuse to bring him some of her elfroot-and-ginger tea. The meals she sent up for him when she knew he wasn’t eating. The way she _looked_ at him, with so much faith and pride in her eyes. She looked at him and saw someone _worthy_ , and it made him feel wanted as a friend, and maybe more.

_It would be her choice._

_But what would that choice take from her?_

 

With a sigh, Cullen slumped back in his chair, rubbing his forehead and trying to will the headache away as the aches of withdrawal settled in his bones.

 

_Maker, it never gets easier, does it?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a fan of Egghead, so I'm sorry if you do like Solas and feel like I wrong him by writing him this way, haha. I feel like I struggled with the ending to this chapter, but hopefully it reads alright? Concrit, feedback, kudos, comments and the whole jazz more than welcome!


	8. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen has a hard time talking about his feelings when he really should just be throwing it out there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've not been feeling all that great the past two days - I spent them at home because I pulled one side of my trapezius muscle during my weight training and made it worse by doing a shoulder workout the day after. Sigh.
> 
> At least it gave me some time to write, so have a chapter a day early!

Winter slowly enveloped Skyhold, wrapping it in a thick blanket of snow. With it came memories from winters in Honnleath, evenings spent by the fire, with his Ma knitting enough hats and scarves to outfit an army. His Da would take up woodwork in the cold months, whittling away at the wood with his feet as close to the fire as he could get them, and he and his siblings would play in the snow until they could no longer feel their fingers and toes. He knew there were many more memories, but most of them seemed faded when he tried to recall them. Another price to pay for the lyrium, he thought grimly.

Though he supposed he could always make more.

 

Siiri was not used to this kind of weather, and that became painfully obvious when he saw her on the battlements, clothed in just her regular clothes and bare feet. Her breath came in short puffs, the little clouds drifting upwards as she looked to the sky in amazement.

“You really ought to start wearing some boots,” he said gruffly when he joined her, hands clasped behind his back. Her eyes darted towards him as he broke her out of her reverie, and she graced him with a quick smile. “I like having bare feet,” she replied, amusement in her voice. 

He knew. She would pitter patter around his office, the sound of her bare feet hitting the flagstones oddly comforting. Even in Haven she had always ran around without any kind of shoes on, though Cassandra had told him that she did wear boots when they did long trips. It worried him, though he supposed that she was used to it and wouldn’t get ill quickly – but still.

“You’ve got that frown on your face.” He looked at her and she smiled, pointing at the crease between his eyebrows. “Right there. When you’re overthinking things you shouldn’t be. Like me not wearing any shoes.” She wriggled her toes, looking pleased.

“Is it a Dalish thing?”

“I guess. I like the way my toes dig into the dirt, or the snow. It’s quite liberating. Cold, yes, but nothing I can’t handle. Besides, at least I still wear some boots when we go certain places – unlike Solas.”

 

Cullen’s face darkened when she mentioned the elf, and he crossed his arms over his chest as he looked out over the valley ahead. _She would choose wrongly._ The words came up unbidden, and he made an annoyed sound as he recalled the other day’s events.

 

“There it is again,” she murmured. When he looked at her, she was studying him intently, head held slightly sideways like she used to do back in Haven. “Does it bother you that much that I don’t wear shoes?” There was an attempt at humour in her voice, but it didn’t fool him – she was still looking at him like he was a puzzle she was trying to decipher.

“It’s nothing,” he started, although he ended up sighing and rubbing the back of his neck. “I get the impression that Solas doesn’t really like me.”

“You’re a human.” She said it tersely, with a disapproving look on her face. “He’s special like that.”

 

“He spoke to me some time ago. About you.” It felt like he had to push the words out, dreading every moment but no longer being able to keep it inside.

She looked at him, green eyes slightly narrowed. “What about me?”

“About your choice of company,” he murmured, locking her eyes with his. “Me, specifically.” He saw surprise flit over her face, quickly followed by anger.

 

“He has no right to disapprove of who I speak with.” Her voice was deceivingly calm, but he could see the way her ears had flicked and the anger hiding in the flare of her nostrils.

“But there are others who might,” he said slowly. It hurt to speak, but it was the truth. “How would your Clan look upon me? A _shemlen_ and a former Templar?”

“My Clan isn’t here.” She spoke softly, almost whispering, never taking her eyes off him. He could not look away, watched her eyelashes flutter as she looked up at him.

“But one day you might go home,” he said hoarsely, “and become First again. You would be such a good Keeper, Siiri. You love the history of your people, your traditions. They would care if you-“

“ _They_ would care,” she interrupted him. “I would _not_. _Fenedhis,_ Cullen, are all humans as thick as you are or this is a special Ferelden trait? Do you want me to return to my Clan as First, find a nice Elvhen man to bond with and do my _duty_ to my race, as _Solas_ would probably call it?”

 

He was unable to speak. She stood there, looking so defiant and _brilliant_ in the morning light, her auburn hair shining as he looked at her. Words kept popping up in his head, apologies and wishes and _confessions,_ but his tongue seemed twisted in knots and he could not form them.

 

 _I want you to stay,_ he thought. _I want you to be mine._

_I want…_

As he kept quiet, her face slowly crumpled and she sighed, ears drooping slightly as the fire in her died out. "I wish you would just talk to me, Cullen," she sighed, closing her eyes briefly. “I have a meeting with Josephine,” she resumed in a clipped tone. “I will see you in the War Room later.”

 

_Cullen Stanton Rutherford, you are an idiot and deserve this._

He watched her walk away, his heart caught in his throat.

 

They didn’t speak for days, except in the War Room. She would ask questions in those clipped tones she reserved for him now, and he would answer meekly. It made the three other women raise their eyebrows at the two of them, but none of them seemed to find it wise to bring it up, which he was somewhat relieved about.

He knew she wanted him to come forwards first, to take the first step for once, but it felt like his chest was banded with iron. Whenever he tried, unintelligible sounds would start to bubble up in his throat and he had to run away, hiding his flushed face and embarrassed countenance. He was a  _grown man_ , and still he could not talk to the person who meant the world to him.

He remembered how she had looked during that one chess game, her small tongue flicking out just briefly to lick the last bit of cheese off her fingers and the way she had smiled at him.

_Your move._

 Maker, how he wished he could.

 

A week later, she left for the Exalted Plains with only a stiff goodbye. She left Solas at Skyhold, though, and he had been a constant companion for her up until that point. The Elf didn’t seem very happy about it either, which made him feel better.

 

Just a little bit, at least.

 

A couple of days later, Dorian visited his office for chess, but Cullen found himself too distracted to play. Instead, they shared this hot Tevene beverage he called coffee, strong, bitter and exactly what he needed.

They sat in silence for a while before the Altus cleared his throat and smoothed his moustache. “So,” he began, ever the elegant noble as he sipped from his tiny cup of coffee, “have you written to her yet?”

 

Cullen almost spilled his drink and glared at the mage, who laughed at the sight. “Oh, Commander, but you are _glorious._ I didn’t even say her name and you already almost lost it.”

“She has not written any reports yet,” he grumbled as he put the coffee cup down carefully on the saucer. Why did they make the damned things so small? “So no, I haven’t written yet.”

“I wasn’t talking of a report,” Dorian said, obviously amused. “I meant a _letter._ You know, like when people write each other for the pleasure of it rather than for your odious reports.”

Cullen made a noncommittal sound, nervously rubbing the back of his neck.

“She’s not angry at you,” he continued calmly, looking at Cullen over the rim of his cup. “She’s just disappointed.”

_Disappointed?_

“I would be, with how you’re treating her. Not that you’re treating her badly,” he hurried to say when Cullen glared daggers at him, “but you’re not really paying attention, are you?”

“I listen to her,” Cullen protested, and Dorian clacked his tongue.

“Do you, though? Or are you listening, but afraid to respond?”

 

_Ah. Damn you, you very perceptive and annoying man. How did the mage always see right through him?_

“I thought so,” he hummed, smiling as he twirled his moustache and looking all too pleased with himself.

 

“I-“ Cullen stopped, collecting himself for a moment before he continued. “I don’t want to be a burden to her,” he confessed, rubbing his forehead. _A burden, troublesome, an old man weighing her down. Lyrium singing in his bones and memories fading, what if he himself would fade one day? She would be better off without him._ “And when I try to talk to her, my _words_ just fail me, like a child.” There was a bitterness in his tone, and an anger directed only towards himself. He knew, deep down, what the gifts meant, but felt unable to express what _she_ meant to _him_ – or act upon it.

“She doesn’t seem to mind,” he replied calmly, and Cullen frowned.

“You didn't see her face last time we talked.”

“I think she finds it awkwardly adorable, in a way, until it's keeping the two of you from actually getting anywhere." Dorian sipped from his cup, making an amused noise.

"It's not adorable. She might mind one day," he grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose.  
  
"For someone who supposedly _likes_ our Inquisitor, you have very little faith in her. She's a grown woman. She can make her own choices.”

 

He blinked, looking up at Dorian.

 

“Write to her,” the man urged, looking at him with piercing eyes before smoothing over his moustache again. He switched subjects conveniently after that, leaving Cullen to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come now, Cullen, use your words! You know you can do it.
> 
> Honestly, I know he's taking a long time, but a lot of this writing is and will be very personal to me. I had a very hard time communicating in relationships (still kind of do) and I can totally imagine Cullen having the same issues - not knowing how to say what he wants, or admit what he wants, and thus shutting down completely. Maker knows I had it happen to me all the time.
> 
> As always, comments and concrit more than appreciated - hope some of you like that Siiri is putting her foot down a bit more for our strapping ex-Templar ;) And don't worry, they will talk it out at some point! Communication is important, friends!


	9. Letters

_~~Dear~~ _

_~~Inquisitor~~ _

_Siiri,_

 

_I’m sorry._

_~~Commander~~ Cullen_

_~~P.S. Will you~~ _

_~~P.S. I wanted to~~ _

_\---_

_Dear Siiri,_

_Dorian tells me my first letter was not good enough, so I am writing another one. You know better than anyone how my words fail me, especially when I need them most. Dorian is all too keen to remind me._

_When you spoke to me on the battlements, I was not at my best. Solas’ words were still fresh in my mind, and I did not listen to you. Not truly, and I am sorry for that._

_Can we talk again when you return?_

_Cullen_

_P.S. I think Leliana reads these letters._

_P.P.S. Included with this letter should be a pair of socks. Please wear them if the weather gets cold. ~~I worry about you and~~ I hope they are comfortable._

_\---_

_My dearest,_

_I hope Cullen sent you a better letter than the rag he first presented to me. You have chosen a slow one, dear, but I will forgive you – he does cut such a dashing figure._

_I have no real purpose in sending you this letter, except to impart upon you this request – do wear the socks. I know they are hideous – Yellow wool? Ugh! – but I am pleased to tell you that your Lion of Ferelden knitted them himself, which is probably why they have such an…. Artisanal look. I’ve been teasing him endlessly about it – keeping such a talent secret! – which makes him delightfully grumpy. Sometimes he even forgets to notice that I am cheating when I bring it up during chess. If you don’t wear them, his heart might break, and that would be tragic indeed._

_And if I may now speak more plainly – do write back and put the man out of his misery. He has been Ser Sullen more than I can count and it is becoming rather tedious, though it was cute for a while. His pouting face is rather exceptional._

_With all my love, as usual,_

_Dorian Pavus_

\---

 

_Dear Cullen,_

_We are now on our way back from ~~Dirthavaren~~ the Exalted Plains. Please instruct the War Council that I will want to speak to them upon arrival about some developments with the Civil War efforts there – it’s a mess, and I will need everyone’s input to find a good way of approaching this._

_I accept your apology, but I want to speak more about this when we see each other again._

_Also, the socks are nice. Don’t tell Dorian that I like the colour. It makes me think of you._

_Could you ‘find’ some that have individual toes? Sera tells me she has seen some socks like that, though I am somewhat disinclined to believe her. I would love them, though._

_Kind regards,_

_Siiri_

_P.S. Yes, Dorian told me. Don’t be too mad at him. I liked your apology better with the socks. Knowing you made them made it all the better, ma’halla. I look forward to seeing you again._

_P.P.S. I also really like blue and green, for future reference._

_\---_

_Siiri,_

_I will kill Dorian._

_There should be a package accompanying this letter with a pair of blue toe socks. I didn’t have time to ~~make~~ find more. Individual toe socks are hard  to find._

_I’m on it, though._

_Cullen_

_P.S. Why am I your halla?_

_P.P.S. ~~I also look forward to seeing you again~~ I hope you have safe travels._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going places.... Slowly. Ever so slowly.
> 
> Also, I love the thought of Cullen knitting. I find it a very soothing activity and I think it's rather adorable to imagine the Commander choosing wool and knitting socks for his crush.


	10. Mala Suledin Nadas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, you must endure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to everyone who has been commenting, subscribing and leaving kudos on this piece!! It fills me with so much joy to get the notifications in my inbox. Thank you all for reading! :D

She arrived two weeks after her last letter, giving him enough time to think.

It was hard not to see the signals she had been sending him, but when you thought of yourself as a broken man, it was easy to think that they must mean less than he thought. _Foolish man, how could she look at you in that way? A friend, nothing more, maybe even less. She could just be keeping an eye on you to make sure you won’t fail. And when you do, she will cut you loose._ Siiri Lavellan, Herald of Andraste and Leader of the Inquisition deserved someone whole, not an addict riddled with pains and symptoms that would last for Maker knew how long.

But she had chosen him.

 

And he would choose _her,_ too.

 

The horns sounded her arrival just as he was briefing some soldiers on their next assignment, and Cullen instantly perked up. They were only halfway through the brief, but he quickly got up and stammered an excuse before running out of the tower. His booted feet thudded against the flagstone as he rushed down the stairs, slowing down as he got to the courtyard so he could at least _try_ to look presentable. His heart raced in his chest as he came to a halt next to Josephine and Leliana, who both looked grim in the dusk slowly falling over Skyhold.

What had happened?

He forgot all about the other advisors when Siiri entered the keep, magnificent on top of her massive Hart. She looked like she belonged there, her short hair braided back to keep it out of her eyes. Her face seemed to light up as she saw him, and he finally let go of the air he had unknowingly kept in his lungs, relaxing at last. _She was not angry._ With a smile, she slid gracefully from her mount, patting its nose and mumbling some Elven words before handing over the reins to Dennet. While her companions dismounted, she walked over to them as she took off her gloves. “It’s been a long ride,” she said tiredly, “but let’s get this over with. I bring news from the Dirth.”

Josephine looked at Leliana, and her usual mask of composed nobility seemed to falter for a second before she flashed a strained smile at Siiri. “Ofcourse, your Worship. We have news, too.” 

He saw her eyes flicker from Leliana to Josephine before moving to him, and Cullen shook his head slowly – he had no idea what was going on. Her ears flicked, just once, before she nodded and started walking to the War Room.

 

\---

 

_Maker, he wished he could have prevented this._

 

He watched her crumple to the ground, her seemingly never-ending composure gone, and Cullen closed his eyes as a desperate wail left her body.

Siiri’s Keeper had reached out for help with a bandit-related problem a month or so ago, and after much deliberation, Siiri had decided to go the diplomatic route and send Josephine’s emissary, as it had seemed the best way to proceed.

 

It was not.

 

The missive had come in the middle of the night, a letter hastily scrawled, the paper torn and splattered with blood. Leliana had kept the news until the last moment, hoping that she would be able to find evidence to the contrary, but Siiri had a right to know.

And now she did.

Josephine looked shocked as her eyes flitted from Siiri to Leliana, seemingly asking for advice on what to do, for once not as in control as she always seemed with the otherwise so composed Inquisitor sobbing before her. Cassandra looked uncomfortable and torn between punching something or stepping towards the Inquisitor to help. There was nothing left of the neutral, calm facade their Inquisitor usually wore, shattered to pieces in the wake of this news. In the end, it was Cullen who moved towards her slowly, crouching next to her as she laid her forehead on the cold flagstones and a strangled cry left her.

She did not hold back her tears, sobbing violently until her body shook with the power of her grief. The sound of her cries shook him to the core, and he felt it deep in his bones. “ _Mamae,”_ she cried out haltingly, and Cullen felt his throat close up before he put his hand on her back. There was nothing he could say to comfort her, nothing that would change the reality. Her entire clan had been killed, her family and friends, and she carried the name of clan Lavellan on her shoulders.

He held her as she cried, weathered the storm for her as she wailed and sobbed, cursing her Creators and Fen’Harel alike. By the time her grief had died down a bit, she seemed to have lost all her energy, resting against him with a blotchy face and tired eyes. Cullen hadn’t noticed that he was stroking her hair, softly tucking it behind her long ears and resting his chin on the top of her head as he murmured soothing words, trying to calm her down.

 

It was in moments like these that he realized how _young_ she was.

 

When he finally looked up, all the other advisors had left the War Room.  
“Let’s get you to your chambers,” he said softly, and Siiri just nodded weakly. He tried to help her up, but her legs seemed unsteady, so Cullen decided to pick her up and carry her. It was still hours before dawn, and the Great Hall would be deserted now. She squeaked when he picked her up, trying to make him put her down, but Cullen shook his head. “No one will see it,” he said gently. “Let me help you, like you helped me.” That seemed to calm her, and she settled against him, resting her forehead on his chest. It was so similar to when he had carried her up the mountain that his heart ached, his arms tightening around her. Her fingers found the scruff of his mantle and dug into them as she breathed in deeply, sighing softly. “ _Ma serannas, Cullen,”_ she whispered hoarsely, but Cullen shook his head as he carried her to her rooms.

As he got to the top of the stairs, he realized he had never been in her chambers before. It had seemed… inappropriate, even in his advisor’s role. People might speculate and gossip, and he did not want to set tongues wagging about the Inquisitor and her Commander.

 

No matter how much he might have _wanted_ the gossip to be true.

 

Her room was decorated sparsely, as she had no possessions with her when she came to Haven, and anything she might have gathered then was lost in their flight. But there were signs of her woodwork everywhere, little sculptures neatly arranged in a bookcase, in varying stages of completion. Towers of books stacked on top of each other, some seemingly almost toppling over. Her bed looked too large for a single, small Elf, and decorated in a gaudy Orlesian style which made his nose scrunch up. Josephine’s hand was very clear in matters such as this, he thought begrudgingly.

She looked exhausted when he laid her down, so he sat down on the edge of the bed and helped her remove her boots, revealing her brightly coloured, yellow socks – the socks he had knitted for her, he thought with a fleeting smile. He was wondering if he should just let her sleep in her clothes, as she looked too tired to take them off, when she took the decision for him and simply pulled her tunic over her head.

He looked away, his cheeks painted crimson when he realized that he was _in her room and she was taking her clothes off, sweet Maker._ For a second he thought he heard her laugh, but when he whipped his head back she was underneath the covers, a sad smile tugging at her lips. As he looked at her, her composure seemed to break again, and fat tears rolled down her cheek. She cried in silence this time, her hand covering her mouth to stop the sobs coming out, and Cullen gently took her hand away and held it in his.

“Ir abelas,” he said quietly, feeling her sadness reverberate inside him. The words seemed to break whatever was holding her back, and she clutched his hand almost painfully as she cried out. He didn’t care, letting her crush his hand as much as she liked, and softly caressed her hand with his thumb.

He stayed with her until her sobs died down again and she looked like she was finally falling asleep, gently extricating his hand from hers before he put it on her chest. It was hard to leave her when she looked this vulnerable, but he really ought to be back before dawn. A few hours ago, he was looking forward to talking to her, to maybe finally resolving what had been building between them. It seemed so improper to think of it now, after she had just lost her entire Clan. Cullen gently swiped some hair from her forehead, lingering for only a moment before he got up and started towards the stairs. _There would be time later,_ he thought, _when she has had time to recover. Now, she would have to endure._

 

“Thank you. For staying.”

 

He turned around, seeing her look at him with those deep, green eyes that had seen too much sorrow. The tiredness had settled into his bones, making his shoulders slump, but when she looked at him he couldn’t help but straighten a bit.

 

“Any time,” he said breathlessly, and she did that thing with her eyes that made it look like she smiled, even without moving her lips. He smiled back in his own, crooked way, eyes softening before he turned to the stairs and descended them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's always something more, isn't there?
> 
> This happened on my first ever playthrough, and I think I still haven't recovered from it. I don't think Siiri will recover quickly, either.


	11. Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes friends are found in strange places, and give good advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is late!! I had a huge event this weekend and didn't manage to catch up on my schedule. I had a big part of this written out already, but kept going over it and changing things. I had a hard time with this chapter! I feel like I'm saying that with every chapter now, haha. I hope you're all still enjoying this story!

The Inquisitor didn’t leave her room for a long time.

Cullen brought Josephine up to speed with what had happened after they had left, and the woman assured him that she would take care of the Inquisitor. He could see her mind already racing with ideas to cheer her up, and he quietly left the room as she was furiously scribbling notes on her portable desk.

He wanted to visit, but most people kept being turned away by her guards, so he didn’t try. The only people so far he had seen being let in were Josephine and Dorian, and even then it seemed sparingly. Days passed by, and he took up the habit of looking after her Hart, who she had apparently named Biscuit according to Dennet – for some reason. The animal liked him less than her owner, but seemed to accept his presence, and the biscuits he always smuggled along for her.

 

He guessed it made _some_ sense to call her Biscuit.

 

He spent his free time – however little of it he had – knitting, still a bit embarrassed at having picked up his Ma’s old hobby. Back when he lived in Honnleath, his entire family had known how to knit and sew – his mother had always insisted that they should know how to fix their own clothes, regardless of gender, and it had been handy in his days as a Templar recruit. It had taken him a while to get used to it again, and when he had first knitted the socks he had enlisted Sera’s help to get started, who was apparently an avid knitter and showed off her collection of lumpy, multi-coloured items. He didn’t have the heart to tell her they looked awful, but Sera loved the “stabby sewing” and he just let her be.

They got in the habit of knitting together, usually tucked away in her tavern room so none of his soldiers would find him, and he found himself appreciating the Elf’s company more and more as time went on. She was crude, and had a _terrible_ sense of humour, but she kept his mind off things and always seemed to be able to perk him up.

“So, you and Her Inquisitorial Elfyness, yeah?”  
He looked up from his knitting, brows furrowed as he tried to remember whether he had knitted or purled before refocusing on Sera. “What?”  
“You and Siiri, are ya finally bangin’ bits together?”

The needles almost fell out of his hands, and he desperately tried to clutch them. “For _Maker’s sake,_ Sera,” he grumbled, picking up the stitches that had fallen off his needle again. “No, we are not _banging bits._ I can’t believe I had to repeat that.”

“Well, you should be,” she replied grumpily, though she flashed him a big, toothy grin straight after. “She digs you, yeah? You’re not being stupid, are ya? Takes a fool to not see how you look at her when you think she ain’t lookin’, but she’s doin’ the same, yeah?”

He sighed, putting the wool down. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with you,” he mumbled, rubbing his forehead to will the impending headache away. “We were going to talk about it,” he confessed eventually. “Or at least, I think we were. But then…”  
“The loss of her family messed her up real good,” Sera mumbled, suddenly a bit downcast. “I’ve been trying to get in, but those uptight guards of hers won’t let me. I tried throwing a jar of bees at them, but they didn’t even seem to care.”

 

_A jar of bees?_

_Acutally… Nevermind._

“But you’ve visited, right?”

He sighed, feeling a brush creep up on his cheeks. “No,” he admitted. “I didn’t think she would want to see me.”

When the elf remained quiet, he eventually looked up to see her staring at him with an unbelieving look on her face.

“You really are daft, aren’t ya? She’s probably waitin’ to see ya and yer just not gonna go?”

 

_Maker’s breath, she was right._

“Excuse me, Sera,” he said as he scrambled to get up, straightening his overcoat before walking out of her room, cheered on by her sudden and happy shouting. He had even forgotten about his knitting, leaving it to Sera’s mercy.

_She’s a good friend,_ he thought. _Another unexpected one._

He had no difficulty getting past the guards, who seemed to have been told to let him in. As he walked up the stairs, he noticed how quiet it was, and wondered if she would be asleep.

Turning at the end of the stairs, he saw her lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. She was swaddled in blankets, obviously Dalish in origin, and around her there were several bits of wood which she seemed to have started carving, but not finished. Her ears flicked when she heard him approach, and when her eyes found his she smiled tiredly, her eyes glossy with unshed tears. “ _Ma’halla,”_ she said softly, curling up more in the blankets. “I wondered when you would come.”

“I’m sorry.” Cullen spoke gently, afraid of making her cry again. “I seem to make a habit out of this, not realizing where I should be.” _Next to you_ , he thought. She laughed quietly, watery, but he felt the tension in his shoulders dissipate a bit at the sound.

It was strange, seeing her so immobile. She was always so fluid, ever in movement, always with somewhere to go. Every line of her was graceful and quick, with the way she cocked her head as she studied him and the rapid way of speaking when she got excited, but the way she was now… Still, thoughtful, weary. The world on her shoulders, and no more family to help her carry it.

 

But he could help her.

 

Slowly and carefully he lowered himself to the floor, bones creaking and aching. The lyrium withdrawals were bad today, though he forgot all about them in his concern for Siiri. She looked at him as he got comfortable, her eyes a deep pool of unidentifiable emotions.

“Have you eaten recently?” he said, gently stroking her hair. Siiri’s eyes fluttered shut and he studied her pale face, the myriad of freckles even more noticeable now. Her voice was hesitant when she finally responded. “Define recently?”

“You need to eat,” he murmured, absently caressing her cheek. “You’re looking pale.” His breath hitched in his throat when she suddenly opened her eyes to look at him, lips slightly parted.

“I am told the Orlesians love this look,” she mumbled. “Pale and forlorn. Maybe it will help me gather some approval.”  
“I don’t care about what the Orlesians think,” he chided her gently, “and I know you don’t, either.” She graced him with a watery smile before burrowing deeper into the blankets. “Sometimes I think I do,” she said, her voice filling with tears. “I thought they would appreciate a diplomatic move from a _knife-ear_. I shouldn’t have messed with politics.”

“Don’t call yourself that,” he said, rougher than he anticipated. It made her start, and he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t call yourself a knife-ear,” he repeated, gentler. It reminded him of the times back in Haven, where he had heard people call her that behind her back. He had seen her stiffen, straightening her back, but never backing down. One time she had stood against a group of troublemakers, despite being a good head smaller than them, chin high and defiant and that spark in her eyes that back then, she reserved mostly for him. It hurt him to see her like this now, blaming herself.

“You made a decision,” he continued, his tone softening. “We supported it, and we thought it was a good one. There is no blame, and if there was, it would be on all of us, not you.”

She hiccupped, unable to keep the tears at bay and curling more into him. He held her as they sat in the sunlight beaming down through the windows, held her until she sunk into a fitful sleep, lashes fluttering as her eyes moved underneath their lids.

When she woke up, he had food brought up by a maid, who seemed overjoyed that the Inquisitor was up and about, and with the way she eyed him, Cullen had no doubt that soon the entire fortress would know that the Commander had visited her in her private rooms. He didn’t care, not when he saw Siiri’s faint smile as she was presented with the stew he had ordered for her and her little squeeze of gratitude as she held his hand, not even letting go while eating. In time, her voice grew firmer, and by the time he had to leave her rooms she seemed a bit calmer. He was reluctant to go, but had requisition forms to look over and sign off on, and he could no longer postpone it.

“I will come back tomorrow,” he promised, his voice deepening as he held her fingers in his. “You have my word.”  
“I’m surprised I don’t have to ask you this time,” she said jokingly, a brief smile on her face. Cullen returned it, feeling reassured by her reaction.

“It is my pleasure,” he smiled, only letting go of her hand when he needed his to open the door.

 

“Tomorrow morning?”

 

He laughed, and locked eyes with her before bowing ever so slightly.

“Tomorrow morning,” he promised, “as my Lady commands.”

 

The smile he got from that was so brilliant that for that single moment, all sorrow was lifted from her face, and he felt like he could breathe again.

It would take time, but she would recover. And he would hold her through all of it if he had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, Sera and Cullen being friends gives me life. I feel like he appreciates her, in a weird way, despite her being almost a complete opposite to himself.
> 
> Also, she knits. They could totally make a knitting club. Cole could join in!


	12. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen stays close to Siiri while she deals with the death of her clan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've reached a thousand hits on this fic! I'm so pleased this many people have given it a shot. Thank you all for reading this story <3 We should be getting things moving soon... hehe.

It took her weeks to recover from the death of her Clan.

During the day she wore her mask, the neutral facial expressions he hadn’t seen in so long, and carried out her Inquisitorial duties. He would see her smile, but only skin-deep, and everyone in the inner circle could see it. Dorian developed the habit of drinking coffee with her, hidden away in the alcove he had claimed as his own in the library as they delved into old books on Elvish history. Cole had started leaving sweet bits of pastry everywhere she went, including a (admittingly poorly made) version of the Dalish cookies her mother had once sent her.

Her lip had trembled, but she had thanked the boy, and closed her eyes as she nibbled the baked goods.

 

He so wanted to speak to her about that conversation they had before she left, but it felt cruel to do that now that her life had been turned upside down. So he stayed close, and supported her, asking for nothing in return.

Sometimes, Siiri showed up in his office in the dead of night, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. He had asked Josephine to find a couch he could keep in his office, for ‘visiting dignitaries’. Josephine knew all too well who the couch was for, but had just smiled at him brightly, tittering happily as she made a note on her ever-present to-do list. Now, whenever the Inquisitor visited, he would ask for some tea to be sent up, and she would huddle on the sofa with a book to pass the time.

She still insisted on adding that dollop of honey to his cup of tea, exactly the way he liked it, and it made him blush almost every time.

She chastised him for being awake still at that time, completely ignoring the fact that she herself was _also_ still awake, but he could see in her eyes that she was relieved. _It feels like I’m alone now,_ she had said one night, as she was just on the edge of falling asleep on his sofa. Quietly, he had tucked her in with a blanket retrieved from his loft, his tongue twisted in too many knots to be able to promise her that she didn’t have to be.

They spent afternoons in her room, him with his knitting needles and her whittling away at some wood. Sometimes they would sit next to each other, almost touching, but _just_ not there. An unspoken promise in the way she looked at him, the way she smiled – sad, but also relieved that he was there. Lips wanting to say more, but not ready yet.

 

He could wait. For her, _Maker,_ he would wait forever.

 

Days flowed into weeks, and one day he found her in the garden, carefully planting some young saplings in the corner next to the gazebo. Her face had been serious, the frown on her forehead contorting the lines of her _vallaslin_ as she worked. There were two oak carved staffs planted next to the saplings, one ornately decorated with halla, the other seemingly wrapped in flowers. It felt personal, so he didn’t approach until she was done and quietly weaving magic over the saplings. The plants seemed to thrive under her touch, bending towards the sunlight and stretching just that bit higher as she moved her hands over them. Once, her magic would have made him nervous, but now it felt… calming.

 

_Beautiful._

Something had changed in her after she planted the saplings, and her behaviour seemed to slowly revert to what it had been before, though she still carried a sadness with her wherever she went. She seemed more settled, however, and it gladdened his heart to see.

Even if it meant that she would be going out on a mission again, soon.

She came to speak to him an hour before she left, hair braided away from her face, all suited up in her leathers and robes, looking every bit the part of the Inquisitor. When she walked in, confident and calm, he could do nothing but stare for a moment before clearing his throat and getting up from his chair. She smiled, as if she knew what she did to him, and motioned for him to sit down.

“No need to stand on formalities, _Commander,_ ” she said, a teasing lilt to her voice that he hadn’t heard for too long. “I just wanted to say goodbye, _ma’halla_ , before having to do the whole stiff ceremony with the other advisors.”

She perched on top of his desk, her slight frame poised elegantly even when sitting on furniture.

“I wanted to thank you,” she murmured, eyes locked with his. “For everything.”

“You have done the same for me, and more,” he spoke, his voice soft and tender. “It was no burden for me to return that favour.”

That earned him a smile, and she tucked a strand of hair that had escaped the braids behind her long, pointed ears. They sat quietly for a while, listening to the sounds of Skyhold preparing for its Inquisitor’s departure.

 

“I will miss you.”

 

Her words broke the silence, and he looked up at her, his throat suddenly dry as he saw her eyes glisten, almost wetly.

“And I will miss you, too,” he admitted, slowly inching his fingers towards hers. Her eyes flitted down, and her hand flexed as she reached for him, almost hesitatingly. “I wanted to…”

The door slammed open, and Cullen clenched his jaw as Jim walked in, holding reports. “Ser,” he said, saluting briskly as he walked up to the desk, seemingly not even noticing the Inquisitor sitting on the Commander’s desk and looking decidedly flustered. “These reports need signing before the Inquisitor leaves, ser. Lady Nightingale says they need to be given along with the party.”

Siiri smiled behind her hand, looking equal parts embarrassed as she did amused, and he threw her a terse look before taking the reports from the scout. “Very well,” he grumbled, “you may leave us now. I will make sure these are given along.”

“She asked me to wait until you signed them, ser,” Jim said, obviously uncomfortable, his gaze switching between Cullen and Siiri now. “Lady Nightingale, that is, ser.”

 

The Maker had a cruel sense of humour.

 

And so Cullen spent the last hour with Siiri behind his desk, signing off on reports while Jim tried to make some awkward conversation with the Herald, who stayed perched on his desk, her fingers still where she last left them, invitingly spread on the table.

How he wished he could link his fingers with hers, as he had planned to.

 

Fifteen minutes later, he stood in the courtyard, his back straight and hand resting on the pommel of his sword, a perfect example of a Templar. A man could leave the Order, but the Order didn’t leave the man nearly as easily. Siiri exchanged a last few words with Leliana, ears flicking nervously when she dared to peek over at him. They parted with a quiet goodbye, unable to exchange more than a few words before she was escorted to her Hart and climbed on top of the noble steed with her usual grace. He sighed as she left, flanked by Dorian and Sera, Cassandra trailing behind them.

“If I had known my reports were interrupting something more important, I wouldn’t have told poor Jim to wait until you had signed them,” Leliana mused from behind him, her slight drawl more noticeable when she was making fun of him. “Such a _wistful_ sigh, Commander. I am truly sorry.” He straightened his back when he heard Josephine _giggle_ behind that damn board she always carried around and tried to suppress the heat suffusing his cheeks.

“Do not worry,” the Nightingale continued, her voice sing-song as she smiled at him. “She is only gone for a week.”

He grumbled something unintelligible before storming off, hand on his neck and cheeks blooming red.

 

He tried to bury himself in work, but eventually, the headaches that always found their way back to him started blurring the words on the pages he was trying to read, and Cullen decided – reluctantly – that perhaps it was time for a break. The sun was setting slowly as he walked over the battlements. His feet brought him to the gardens without him realizing, but when he arrived and saw the saplings he smiled and walked up to them.

“So much grief,” a voice said quietly next to him, and Cullen had almost gripped his sword before he realized it was the spirit boy. “Sad, wishing, wanting. She carries the Inquisition, and the world, and her Clan, until she bends under the weight, but she cannot break. And you carry her, but sometimes she fears it’s not enough.” His eerily pale eyes looked up at him from beneath the rim of his hat, and Cullen ‘s thoughts froze. Was he talking about Siiri?

“She wishes she could tell you,” he whispered, “but every time she tries, the grief overwhelms her like a wave. Spirits wandering, lost, searching, did they get a proper burial? She could not plant a forest on their final resting place, and planted these instead. Cherries, for her mother. Sweet and tender, just like her love. Birch, for her brother, lanky and tall but hardy, just like Taralin.”

 

He suddenly remembered her carving the staves, working quietly and focused as she worked the most intricate details into them. A staff for the dead, to guide them to the afterlife.

 

They stood in silence for a while, Cole swaying from side to side slightly while humming a song, until Cullen cleared his throat and looked at the boy.

“Do you want to help me water them?”

 

They sat together for a while, tending to the saplings as Cullen listened to the boy prattle on about the thoughts of people close by, but still remembering the words he said. _She wishes she could tell you,_ he thought. _He wished the same._


	13. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor returns, and Cullen and Siiri finally talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been gone for so long! I'm so very sorry to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Life suddenly got really busy, and finding time to write was hard. I saw some of you comment, but I felt so bad about not posting anymore that I didn't dare to reply as I didn't know when I would be back. I will be responding to your comments as soon as possible, and thanks again to everyone who stuck around for this story. I've decided to cut some of my hobbies to get more time for myself and my writing, and should hopefully resume a regular posting schedule soon.
> 
> Thank you <3

_Cullen,_

_I realize that we left only two days ago, but I wanted to write. I will be back in a couple more days, but I found myself thinking of you, and wanted to put pen to paper. Dorian mocks me for it, so you will have to beat him soundly next time you play chess._

_I think back often to my clan, and those I lost – but also to what I gained. You are a dear friend, ma’nehn, and I could not have gone on as I have without you. You tie my tongue into knots when we speak, so I thought I would write it down while I could._

_It’s short, and I’m sorry. Lace is watching me with a big grin and I don’t want to confirm her suspicions._

_-S._

_P.S. Did you leave ~~someone special~~ anyone behind in Kirkwall? Anyone special caught your interest?_

_\---_

_Commander,_

_I meant friends. Special friends. Or Templars. Maybe Hawke?_

_Disregard last letter._

_-S._

_\---_

_Dear Siiri,_

_Not in Kirkwall._

_Cullen_

_\---_

He kept her letter tucked away in a breast pocket of his shirt, underneath his breastplate, carefully kept from the eyes of the world. Every now and then he would absently put his hand on where it should be, a slight smirk on his face. The recruits noticed their Commander’s lighter mood, but did not mention anything about it, fearing that any comment would ruin the mood and possibly incur heavier drills. Cullen found himself looking forward to Siiri’s arrival, as usual, but with a lighter heart than he usually would.

 

She arrived a day earlier than scheduled, and he only realized that she had arrived when she suddenly appeared in his office, dishevelled and still covered in dust from the road but with a wide grin on her face.

 

“ _Ma’nehn_ ,” she said breathlessly, a glimmer in her eyes when he stood up too quickly and clumsily bumped into his desk, grunting slightly under his breath when he felt his cheeks blush in embarrassment. She had called him by that name in her letter, but had not said what it meant – and it made him wonder.

 

“I was wondering if we could talk.” Her voice shook him from his reverie, gentle as always, and he found himself smiling.

 

“Do you require a war council?” He frowned briefly, collecting some reports he was intending to hand over to Leliana anyway. “I can tell Josephine to prepare a council if you wish to-“

 

“I meant… alone?”

 

He dropped the papers.

 

_Maker, she couldn’t possibly be serious._

“Alone? I mean- ofcourse,” he stuttered, hands fumbling to collect the reports he had just scattered all over the floor. Siiri hid a smile behind her hand, but patiently waited until he had collected himself before opening the door and giving him a look over her shoulder.

 

_Maker, when she looked at him like that, he would follow her anywhere._

They walked onto the battlements, and Cullen felt like he barely had his nerves under control. It felt _different,_ like there was a tension between them, one they had been alluring to so often already but never giving in to. Passing a couple of soldiers who saluted them, he snuck a glance or two at Siiri, who was wearing the passive mask of the Inquisitor – one he could see through as easily as glass nowadays. Her ears flicked restlessly, and she kept trying to nudge the one lock of hair that always escaped her braid behind her ear. She hadn’t even taken the time to bathe or rest after returning, coming straight to see him. They must have pushed the horses to get here this fast.

 

“I-It’s a nice day,” he stuttered, hand rubbing the back of his neck as if it would help him to calm down.

It did not.

 

“What?”

 

She looked at him with a mixture of surprise and amusement, clearly picking up on the fact that he was so nervous it felt like he was sweating buckets. “It’s… There’s something you wished to discuss?”

 

Her ears flicked as she looked at him, quickly lowering her eyes as her fingers tucked the same lock of hair behind her ears again. “Cullen, I care for you, a-and…” She sighed, biting her lip as her mask fell and all her emotions were plain to see. He could see her blush through her freckles, and suddenly all the nerves he had been trying to suppress earlier died down. Her fingers found his, slowly and hesitating, as if she was wondering whether he would reciprocate – he always would. “I will not disrespect what has been between us all this time and ask you if you trust me,” she said softly, eyes looking up at him again. His heart was thundering in his chest, so loud that he was afraid she would hear it, but he couldn’t look away. “But… I am still a mage, and I am Dalish. It means that…” She stopped, swallowing thickly before looking at his fingers and drawing idle circles on them with hers. “I do not care what they think of me.” Her voice was thick, but controlled. “But you are the Commander of the Inquisition, and if the people knew that you cared for me, thought of me as anything more…”

“I do,” Cullen interceded, his voice rough with emotions. It was painful and sweet at the same time, to see her stumbling so over words he had long wished to speak himself. “Think of you. As more than… Maker’s breath,” he huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to compose himself. “The fact that you are Dalish does not make a difference to me,” he continued gently, slightly squeezing her fingers.  “Nor does the fact that you are a mage. You are the Inquisitor. If anything, they would wonder what you see in _me…_ I did not think this was possible.”  
“You didn’t think it was possible?” she responded, an amused smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Ma’nehn, you _are_ a thick one if you still thought this to be impossible.” Her voice was filled with affection, and though she appeared to try to sound chiding, he only felt a surge of warmth bloom in his chest. She took a step back towards the battlements, and he followed her without thinking about it, smiling lopsidedly. “It seemed too much to ask,” he whispered, voice hoarse with longing. All this time they had danced around each other, sustained themselves on silent promises and slightly touching fingers, quick glances and smiles deftly hidden from everyone else. It had been plenty, and yet not enough. And now she was here, looking up at him with wonder in her large, green eyes, and he couldn’t stop himself.

“But I want to…”

Her eyes fluttered as he leaned in, eyes locked on her lips before he closed them, slowly closing the distance between their bodies as…

 

“Commander! You wanted a copy of sister Leliana’s report?”

 

His body jolted in surprise, and the blush was instantly back in his cheeks. Siiri was almost as red as he was, looking away and biting her lip in what seemed to be a mixture of embarrassment and amusement, and Cullen felt his temper flare up. All this time spent waiting, building towards this _one_ moment, and then…

 

“What?”

 

Jim seemed completely oblivious to his irritated tone, happily sauntering over to where the Commander of the Inquisition was keeping its Inquisitor practically pinned against the battlements. Cullen huffed angrily, turning his body towards the scout and towering over him now.

 

“Sister Leliana’s report. You wanted it delivered without delay.”

 

If he could throw the scout into a fire right about now, he probably would. Siiri had turned away slightly, trying to keep a straight face while still about as red as a beet. It was hard to resist the urge to throw Jim off the battlements, and some of that must have showed on his face, because he saw the slow realization dawning upon the scout as his eyes flicked between the Commander and the Inquisitor. “Or…” he began, stumbling over his words and clearing his throat, “to your office! Right…” Cullen breathed out slowly when the man walked away, still cursing himself for not taking her to a more retreated place, or for asking the _damn_ scout to even bring him the blighted reports.

 

Maker’s breath.

 

He could hear Siiri shifting behind him, and when he turned back to her, she had a resigned look on her face. “If you need to-“

 

Before he realized it, he was pressing her against the battlements, silencing whatever sensible thing she was going to say. Her body froze and for a second he thought he had overstepped, somehow misread the situation, but as he begun to pull away her small fingers found the fur on his shoulders, tugging him closer to her. He was enveloped in the scent of her, elderflowers and clean dirt, and the slight, salty taste of sweat on her lips. She smelled of the road, and herself, and _home._ For a moment, she wasn’t his Inquisitor, and he wasn’t her Commander – just a man and a woman, in love despite, or maybe because of each other’s flaws. She had seen him desperate, she had seen him at his lowest point, and still she had come back to him for more. The tiniest little moan escaped her and he drank it in hungrily, coaxing her lips to open so he could taste her fully.

He didn’t know how long it took, but eventually they broke apart, faces still lingering close to each other. She rested her forehead against his with a satisfied smile curling her lips, still on tip-toes to stay closer to his height. “I’m sorry,” Cullen blurted out, though he felt no regret whatsoever. “That was… really nice.”

“ _Ma’nehn_ ,” she sighed, opening her eyes to look at him, the green seemingly deeper than ever. “That was what I wanted.”

He laughed, carefree and deep, the sound reverberating in his chest. “Yes, well…”

 

She laughed, and for a moment he thought back to that first smile she had given him, that day in the Chantry when he was sure he was sending her to her death, his heart aching at the recollection. _You could not save her,_ he heard the voices whisper in his mind.  _She got hurt. It could happen again, if you are not strong enough._ His face fell as he let his forehead lean against hers with a soft _thud_ , and Siiri blinked as she enveloped his face with her small, dainty hands. “ _Ma’nehn,_ ” she whispered, softly rubbing her thumb along his jawline, eyebrows suddenly furrowed in worry.  _She makes me strong enough,_ he suddenly thought, pushing away all of the whispers and insecurities. 

 

“Just a memory,” he confessed quietly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She still looked worried, but then smiled, pulling his head down so she could kiss the bridge of his nose. “You should remember this instead,” she whispered, a broad smile on her face as she pulled him back against her, soft lips finding his.

 

She smelled of elderflower and dirt, sweat and sunshine, and of _home._

**Author's Note:**

> As per usual, comments and kudos are very much appreciated! Let me know what you think or like about it!


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